In vain did the woollendraper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. The body of Jack Sheppard, meanwhile, was borne along by that tremendous host, which rose and fell like the waves of the ocean, until it approached the termination of the Edgeware Road. “Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along. Before there is any change, any real change, I shall be dead—dead—dead and finished—two hundred years!.
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